Do Not Look Back: Akkarin's Past
by CrushedShattered
Summary: This is about Akkarin before The Magicians' Guild, mostly set in Sachaka. The rocky landscape was tinged red at the horizon by the setting sun. A brilliant red, so unlike the color of half-dried blood splattered on the post before him…
1. Chapter 1 Not Safe

**Do Not Look Back: Akkarin****'****s Past**

**Disclaimer****: I don'****t own the Black Magician Trilogy.**

**A/N: As Kasloumor said, there are too few fics on this subject. This fic won****'****t include all the events mentioned in The High Lord, since Kasloumor has already written those and I feel it just not right to write practically the same thing again. I strongly recommend Kasloumor****'****s Akkarin****'****s past fic **_Akkarin and his years in Sachaka_**, the only other fanfic of that kind I****'****ve found so far. It****'****s more heartbreaking than the book itself. Any of the events from Akkarin****'****s narrative in THL that are missing in my fic, you****'****ll probably find in Kasloumor****'****s.**

**Anyways, ****here's ****my story. Most of the chapter will be set in Sachaka. Please R&R! :)**

Chapter 1

_The rocky landscape was tinged red at the horizon by the setting sun. A brilliant red, so unlike the color of half-dried blood splattered on the post before him__…_

_Davoka laughed as the whip whistled in the air. Akkarin heard his own scream, even though the pain had become so usual that he couldn__'__t feel it anymore__…_

_Then the post faded away, twisting and morphing into Dakova, that dagger held casually in his hand, the blade cutting the skin of the slave kneeling before him._

_Dakava placed his hand on the cut, and after a moment the slave fell dead._

_Ilaia was next to him, her hand in his for the first time in years._

_He must act now._

_He pulled her into the shadows. __"__Run,__"__ he breathed, __"__I can hold him off long enough for you__…"_

_Ilaia smiled and pressed two fingers to his lips. __H__e drank in the sight of her, knowing this would be the last time he__'__d ever see her, one way or the other. The gentle curve of her lips, her golden skin, her beautiful amber eyes staring at him__…_

_Then suddenly she was drifting away, towards Dakova. Kneeling, she held out her palm. Akkarin couldn__'__t move. He could only watch as the knife, with gems glittering, came down__―"_

"No!"

Akkarin woke with a start, gasping. Where was he, what _―_

He felt the soft covering of the quilt under his hands. He was in the Guild, he reminded himself, trying to steady his breathing, alarmed at how loud it sounded in the bit, empty room Lorlen had saved for him all these years. He was at home. He was safe from—

He tried to stop the thought, but it was too late. Images of Sachaka flashed in his mind: Dakova, Ilaia, the whipping post…

Moaning softly, he curled up under the heavy quilt, hugging his knees to his chest. It felt safer like this, and warmer.

Do not look back, do not look back, do not look back…

As his breathing steadied again he realized just how cold he was. He pulled the quilt closer to his body, shivering as it didn't help much. After a while he realized that he could use _magic._

Yet he felt a sudden fear of heating up the quilt as he remembered the consequences that would follow if too much power was used. The pain wasn't worth—

No, he was in the Guild, not in Sachaka. Irritated, he used his strong store of power to warm up the quilt and Heal away the soreness in his cramped muscles. After a month he was still hesitant to use magic…

The Healing power loosened his sore muscles and he exhaled softly in pleasure. Little by little he stretched out his limbs until he was actually lying on the bed again. It made him feel slightly unsafe and…exposed, lying down like this. But he felt it might help. And maybe he'd get used to lying like this after a few days. It was only his third day here, after all…

But the nightmares hadn't stopped, nor had the hesitancy to use magic lessened. A month, and still.

The nightmares were taking a great toll on him. Too often he felt tired to the bone but still couldn't make himself sleep. Taking sleep-inducing herbs seemed to help, now that he could get all the Guild could offer…

He suddenly remembered how before he'd killed Dakova he hadn't been plagued by nightmares, And sometimes during he and Takan's journey to the Guild, when he had no power left for a warmth shield, there were no dreams. Maybe if he exhausted himself magically, he could get a good night's sleep…

But that would be hard, maybe a practice-duel in the Arena─

"Master?"

"Takan," Akkarin couldn't help but feel annoyed. Why did Takan keep trying to remind him, though probably not deliberately, of Sachaka?

"I've brought a drink, master."

"Oh," had he made that much noise?

Before creating a globe light, he eased himself up until he was sitting against the headboard, the quilt pulled up to his chest. After that he made a globe light, illuminating Takan's path.

Takan came in, holding a tray with a single mug on it. The globe light bathed his face in silver light, and Akkarin couldn't help but note how characteristically _Sachakan_ he was.

"Master," Takan placed the tray on the nightstand and offered the mug to him, using both hands.

Akkarin accepted the mug and took a sip, swallowing down with the slightly bitter mixture a reminder that he wasn't Takan's 'master'. Takan's insistence on the matter was not helping him forget.

The drink was just the right temperature. Akkarin drained the mug quickly, conscious of Takan standing by his bed. He set the mug back on the tray.

Takan bowed and left. Akkarin slid back down onto the soft, smooth sheets beneath him. It would take a while for the drink to take effect.

The globe light was still floating above him. He lessened its glow and stared at it, trying to forget all else, getting ready for some sleep.

But the nightmares kept replaying themselves in his mind. It wasn't as bad as when he dreamed, but it still hurt.

It was all wrong. He should be able to forget all that had happened when he returned to the Guild, where he was relatively safe for now. "Don't look back," he'd told himself as he made his way to the Guild's gates. Forget it all, start anew. Don't let them see the scars, don't let them know.

But was that possible?

Sighing, he let the light fade away. He was starting to feel dreary. He warmed the quilt up again and closed his eyes. As everything started to fade away he faintly heard a chant in his mind, telling him to do what he so wanted to accomplish but couldn't:

_Do not look back do not look back do not look back__…_

**A/N: I haven****'****t written like this for more than a year. Please review!**


	2. Chapter 2 Takan

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who****'****s reviewed, ****I**** finally managed to finish this chapter. **** I might have gone a little overboard with the Ichani cruelty, but please read and review!**

Chapter 2

Akkarin felt like he was in a dream as he stumbled after one of Dakova's slaves, Takan, across the rocky terrain. For the past few days, after Dakova had attacked him with magic, everything seemed hazy and untrue.

It was simply impossible. He was _not _here, with only pieces if tattered cloth to cover his body, and a massive bundle of firewood tied across his back. How could he suddenly be a…_slave? _

After reading his mind again, seemingly just for the fun of it, Dakova had sneered, saying that Akkarin, with his life in the Guild, could simply not be capable of doing tasks such as finding food or even washing clothes. Instead, Dakova deemed that the only task fit for him was one "close to that of a transport animal's": carrying the firewood for Takan as he went out to chop it daily.

While he'd said all that Akkarin had been in a forced kneeling position in front of him. He'd been drained again and even remaining on his knees was hard. Dakova then kicked him in the ribs and made him stand up as he summoned Takan, telling the cook that he was having Akkarin carry _all _the firewood. And that he expected to have the same amount as before. Or else.

Even with the black spots dancing before his eyes, Akkarin saw Takan glance at him worriedly.

They'd started out at once, Takan leading the way away from the camp, Akkarin wincing every time the tender soles of his bare feet touched the rock-littered ground.

After some time they came to small grove of trees. Takan motioned for Akkarin to sit on one of the larger rocks as he chopped off some braches.

As he watched Takan Akkarin also sent his senses into his own body, wondering what two days of eating next to nothing had done. Everything seemed to be working properly, but his feet were already blistered and reserves of fat had been depleted. He couldn't live on like this for long.

Takan tied all the braches together with a rope and then made two loops with it. He motioned for Akkarin to come over.

As he neared Takan Akkarin saw just how large the bundle of wood was. Its side's diameter was almost as long as the branches' general length. He stared at it, appalled not so much by the size of his burden as by what shouldering it would mean: doing his first real task as a slave to his master.

Takan looked at him, "He'll know if I help you. I'm sorry." He bent down towards the firewood.

Akkarin could only turn and let Takan help him get his arms through the loops and the firewood pressing against his back. He pitched backward as the weight of the firewood threatened to tip him over, and only Takan prevented that from happening by taking hold of the bundle.

"Lean forward," he advised. "Take hold of the ropes or they'll cut into your shoulders."

Akkarin followed his advice and almost stumbled as all the weight of the firewood pressed down on his back. Takan steadied him again, then began walking back towards camp.

Akkarin stood there for a moment longer bent forward, and glanced the opposite way. Part of him wanted to throw the wood down and run that way, away from Dakova, from Sachaka, from this _nightmare. _But reason told him it was foolish. He was too weak. And he suspected grimly that Takan would not go back to camp without him.

The Sachakan had stopped a few feet away from him, and had turned to wait expectantly. Akkarin sighed and stepped forward.

/

Now he stumbled forward, the smaller branches poking into his back, hurting terribly. Because of his burden, they were moving less than half as fast as on their way to the trees. The branches seemed to get heavier with every second, making every step more and more difficult.

For some reason, the combination of thirst, hunger and exhaustion made him realize the full extent of his predicament. Here he was, a slave, being worked even now to death.

The edges of his vision blurred and sweat trickled into his gasping mouth. He'd never perspired like this before. He felt cold and hot at the same time, and realized that he was sweating from exhaustion, something he'd only read of before.

Finally his vision narrowed down to the patch of ground in front of him. His breathing seemed to get louder until it was all he could hear.

He struggled on, forcing his legs to move. After what seemed like eternity, he heard Takan say somewhere far away, "We are back. Stand still."

It took a moment for him to comprehend the words, the same amount of time it took for Takan to untie the ropes and take hold of the bundle of wood, and for what had kept Akkarin on his feet all this time disappear. He crumpled to the ground and rolled onto his side, curling up and shaking from exhaustion.

He concentrated on his breathing and gradually began to hear other sounds. Opening his eyes he found himself lying next to the back of a tent— one made with sturdy material and decorated with an intricate pattern at the bottom. Akkarin realized with a shudder that it was Dakova's tent.

"Our master is waiting out at the front," Takan murmured somewhere besides him. "Remember to kneel." He began to help Akkarin up.

A moan escaped him as Takan's hand pressed one of the sores caused by the braches. Takan immediately clamped a hand over him mouth.

"Dakova hates it when we do that because of work or minor beatings." he whispered. "Here, bend your knees first."

Slowly and painfully he managed to stand with Takan's help. Takan nodded towards the front of the tent and he felt a belated dread. What would happen next?

Dakova's tent was just as large as the one used for all the slaves' lodgings. Trying to distract himself from thinking about what would happen when he got to the front, Akkarin focused on the pattern on the tent. The wide pattern strip consisted of interlocking loops, with delicate vines weaving in and out. He wondered who had made them.

Dakova stood by the entrance to his tent, apparently waiting for him. He noticed Akkarin.

Akkarin got ready to get down on his knees, but then felt it wouldn't be enough, to just kneel down in front of Dakova without speaking.

But Dakova helped him with that. "So how was my pet Guild magician's first day?" he mocked when Akkarin was just a few steps away from him. "Kneel!" he ordered.

Akkarin sank down, relieved at being able to rest. Dakova walked over to him and took out the knife he practiced black magic with. Then he kicked Akkarin in the stomach.

"Hold your arm out, _slave.__"_

The kick had caused Akkarin to bend over in pain. He rolled up his right sleeve to the elbow with his left hand while lifting his right forearm until it was level to his eyes.

Instead of making a cut, Dakova took hold of his raised arm firmly. "This will help you remember," then he twisted.

Akkarin screamed as Dakova dislocated his shoulder. Pain seared through his right arm and as Dakova released his arm he fell sideways onto the ground, clutching at his right shoulder. He reached instinctively for his power and realized with dismay that even after a day there was still next to none.

Everything faded away for a while until all he could feel was the numbness and pain in his arm. After a while of pure agony Dakova prodded him with the tip of his boot.

"Get up."

Half sobbing, he used his left arm to push himself up. It seemed to work until he was halfway up from the ground, when he felt a tug on his right shoulder and another wave of pain. Uttering another scream he fell back down, the impact jarring his shoulder and almost causing him to black out.

"Get up, slave. Or should I get the whip?"

Akkarin knew he could bear no more. He tried again and somehow managed to get back on his knees, cradling his limp right arm in his left and trying to hold back the sobs, which wracked his body, making the pain even worse.

Without warning, Dakova wrenched Akkarin's right arm out of his hold and with one hand closed around Akkarin's clenched right hand and the other around his elbow twisted the palm of Akkarin's hand outwards.

Akkarin howled as his shoulder grated, and the muscles and tendons twisted in the wrong way. Dakova kept on twisting until there was a faint pop and the bone returned to its socket.

But it was still not over. As Akkarin knelt, hunched over and trembling, Dakova rested his hands on his temples and did a mind-read. He forced Akkarin to recount the most painful parts of the day, taking pleasure in his agony.

Finally he let go, turned and disappeared behind the flap of his tent. Akkarin stared at the flap dumbly for a second, and then fell again to the ground.

He slipped into a trace-like sleep, too exhausted and shocked to try to get back to the slaves' tent. After sometime he woke up again, shivering. It was already dark, and much colder. He was also thirsty. His mouth tasted bitter.

His stomach growled, and he realized that he hadn't eaten or drunk anything for a day. He knew he had to get back to the slaves' tent, not only because it would be warmer and he might find some food there, but also because he wanted to get away from Dakova's tent.

The flap of Dakova's tent opened. Akkarin closed his eyes and held his breath, hoping Dakova wouldn't notice him in the dark. He was too weak. He couldn't stand anything now.

"Aiy —?" it was a woman's voice.

A cold hand pressed against his forehead. "Are you hurt?"

Akkarin tensed but then decided to open his eyes. In the dark he couldn't make out her features, but he somehow knew that she was a slave.

Suddenly a light appeared, blinding him. There was a gasp and the woman quickly stood up and hurried away with the light.

Akkarin lay in the darkness again, his eyes gradually adjusting to it, wondering at what had just happened. As he was steeling himself for an attempt at getting up, he saw the light again, and after a while Takan and a woman coming toward him.

The female slave went off in another direction and faded into the darkness.

Takan knelt down beside him. "Is anything broken?" he whispered.

Akkarin shook his head as he sent his senses inward and found everything intact.

"You need to get to out tent," Takan slipped a hand under Akkarin, then pulled it back. "Not yet… wait here for me. Quiet."

He slipped back into the darkness and appeared a few minutes later holding a gourd bowl. After guiding Akkarin into sitting position he held the bowl to his lips. Akkarin tasted water with a more…creamy taste. Rice porridge.

He was using both his hands to support himself. His right shoulder still ached but the pain was more bearable. He wasn't sure if he could support himself if he used a hand to take the bowl, so he allowed Takan to tip the porridge in his mouth.

The boiled rice was as cold as the night. He didn't think it was leftovers: there wouldn't be any in a place like this. Finishing the last of the mixture, he wondered if Takan had saved it for him.

"Now try," Takan set the bowl down and told him to stand up the same way as before.

It wasn't as hard as Akkarin had expected. He focused on Takan's instructions and managed to stand. Despite knowing that it would take time for what he had just eaten to be digested, he already felt stronger.

They arrived at the slaves' tent before he knew it. Takan opened the tent's flap carefully, allowing what little moonlight there was outside by now to pour into its pitch-black interior. All the slaves seemed to be asleep.

Takan pointed to an empty corner, still holding the flap open. By the faint light Akkarin made his way there and cautiously sat down.

As soon as he was lying down Takan let go of the flap and they were in complete darkness again. How would Takan find his way?

But he sank back into sleep before being able to find out, needing to prepare himself for tomorrow, not knowing what would happen, and perhaps hoping that it was all still just a nightmare.


	3. Chapter 3 Healing Magic

**A/N****: First, thanks ****for the reviews again. **** This chapter isn****'****t very****…****eventful, but it deals with a problem which I think is crucial: How will Dakova deal with Akkarin****'****s use of magic?**

Chapter 3

Someone was shaking Akkarin's so strongly that it hurt his shoulders. He tried to ignore it and fall asleep again. The moment he had woken, he'd felt the rough mat under him and known with a sickening certainty that all before hadn't been a nightmare.

How he wished it were one.

"Our master is almost up. _Wake up!__"_

The urgency and concern in the voice jolted Akkarin out of his shock and dreariness. He opened his eyes and found Takan hovering over him, his hands still clamped on Akkarin's shoulders.

Takan breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Akkarin awake. "I have to look over breakfast," he said as he drew away his hands hastily and stood, his voice becoming impersonal and controlled again. "You'll find the place easily after you get up. Don't tarry too much." He slipped out of the tent.

Akkarin took a deep breath and started to roll onto his side, and instantly felt a pulling pain in his shoulders. Remembering yesterday's events, he sat up, wincing at every move. The muscles on his shoulders seemed to be put on a bigger strain as he pulled off his shirt. Before turning his head, he glanced at his shirt.

The back was covered with small spots of dried blood and ragged holes, which he was sure hadn't been there when the slaves had given it to him. He had expected some injuries caused by the branches, but there was so much blood…

He took a quick glance at his right shoulder, wondering how it would look. Before in Healing classes, they'd learned how about how to heal dislocated shoulders both magically and mundane. People usually didn't go to the Healers for dislocated shoulders, as most people knew people knew how to fix them with a skilled twist, just like Dakova.

His shoulder itself seemed fine, but where the rope had rubbed against it there was an angry red mark. Akkarin found himself in a torrent of emotions as he thought of the Guild. How comfortable and simply great life ws there. He wanted to get back so much, but couldn't…

He felt like crying as homesickness, frustration and despair took hold of him. He wanted to go back to the Guild, where the Healers could―

Wait, he could Heal too. He was a Guild magician, after all. He sent his senses inward and sensed the cuts and sores on his back, where the branches had poked through the rough cloth and into his skin. He reached for his power, then hesitated.

Dakova seemed to be keeping him for his power, so what if he used it up? Would Dakova allow it?

Immediately he chided himself for thinking like that. He might be Dakova's slave, but to him Dakova must only be his captor. If he started to think like a slave even now, he might as well accept his fate.

But what could he do but that? But maybe…maybe after he'd grown stronger he could try to escape. He had to at least try.

There was still a chance, albeit a very small one.

The thought of possible made him feel slightly reckless. If he didn't use his power Dakova would take it anyway. And the sores were hurting…

He Healed a few of the more painful sores, and left the others to heal themselves.

His gaze swept across the empty tent and hurriedly he pulled on his shirt and stood up, wondering how long he'd sat, brooding. His vision turned black and he leaned against one of the tent poles, taking deep breaths and using some of his restoring power to Heal it away.

Outside the tent there were only a few slaves, all already working silently. He narrowed his eyes slightly and found Takan by the cooking utensils.

After limping a few steps he healed a few of the bruises and cuts on his feet. He could see Takan sharpening the blade of a hatchet.

Takan saw him as he drew near, and pointed at a bowl by the cooking pot. Akkarin sat by it as he swallowed the bowl of porridge, which unlike last night's, was still warm.

When he looked up again there were no slaves besides Takan in sight, which made him uneasy. Then he remembered what Takan had said while back at the tent and felt a wave of guilt: Takan must be even more anxious now to get away, and he was deterring him.

Hastily he set the bowl on top of a stack of used ones and stood up. Takan didn't say anything as he slung a coil of rope over his shoulder and began walking. Akkarin steadied himself and followed him out of camp.

/

The pattern on Dakova's tent was in front of him again. Akkarin stared at it transfixed for a while, hid eyes following the links and vines until Takan urged him to get up.

On the way back he'd used up all the power he'd regained Healing his sore muscles. He didn't feel so weak due to the two bowls of porridge he'd consumed, but he'd never walked so much with such a heavy burden. Besides Healing himself, he'd spent the rest of the walk wondering what Dakova would do when he found Akkarin with no power to offer again.

Now he would know the consequences.

As he struggled up he heard the sound of a whip whistling through the air and falling against something. There was no sound of agony except a weak plea: "Please master, I promise…"

Akkarin winced as he heard the whip come down again. The sounds were coming from the front of the tent. Part of him felt a nauseating fear while the other part was astonished by the slave's willpower. He'd never seen or experienced a flogging before, but somehow he knew that the one flogged would scream.

"That's Mito," Takan murmured unflinchingly as the slave promised to be faster the next time. "After he leaves,go to the front. Our master will give you a task for the afternoon, I think. After he dismisses you, come to the fire for the mid-day meal."

He turned and headed towards a few slaves who had small woven baskets at their feet.

Dakova was still whipping Mito, so Akkarin leaned slightly against the tent and waited. The slave had fallen silent and there was only the sound of the whip's movements. Besides that there seemed to be no other sounds.

Akkarin guessed that was what Takan had meant by a beating. Before he'd thought it meant being hit, but now…

"Go back to your work," he heard Dakova snap as the whipping stopped. After a moment Akkarin saw a Sachakan not much older than he was walk away with his head bowed low. There was no evidence of the whipping he'd just endured: no fresh blood. Akkarin frowned. Had Dakova Healed him?

He heard Dakova muttering something about magicians and felt Dakova was expecting him. He stood upright again. The sooner he got over this, the better.

Dakova was waiting for him at the front. Akkarin clenched his jaw and knelt before him, holding out his right forearm and bowing his head.

Apparently the Ichani couldn't find anything he'd forgotten, because Akkarin felt the sting of the knife cutting his skin. He held his breath as Dakova sent his senses into his body.

Dakova's hold tightened slightly, then his hands moved up to Akkarin's temples.

―_How have you used your power?_

Before Akkarin could do anything memories of Healing himself came. Dakova 'caught' one and examined it.

―_How do you do this Healing?_

Dakova didn't know how to Heal? Akkarin flashed back to the Healing lessons in the Guild.

The pressure on his temples increased as Dakova learned the basics of Healing. Then he started to ask Akkarin about specific Healing methods, and however he tried Akkarin couldn't stop the memories from appearing.

Finally Dakova retreated from his mind. Akkarin realized he was still holding up his right arm, which was beginning to feel sore. He didn't dare lower it, and waited as Dakova stood over him, dangerously silent.

"I don't keep you as a mere trophy, slave," the tone was casual, but Akkarin could sense the malice beneath. "I keep you for your power. And when I don't get what I expect, there's a punishment."

Akkarin stared still at Dakova's boots. He had expected this, but what would Dakova do?  
Suddenly Dakova lifted his foot. Akkarin braced himself for a kick, but instead the Ichani turned on his heel and stalked toward his tent.

Keeping his head down, Akkarin strained to listen to the muffled sounds inside the tent. There was a snap, like the sound of a stick whipping the ground.

The tent flap seemed to open again, and Akkarin felt his breathing quicken.

Dakova came to his side, and snapped the whip again. "Remove your shirt."

Akkarin obeyed, barely noticing the pulling pain as the cloth sticking on some of the new cuts was pulled off. He set the rags on his other side and slowly hugged his arms, shivering because of cold and maybe fear.

"First time a Sachkan has beaten a Guild magician," Dakova mused, and then Akkarin heard the sound of the whip whistling through the air again.

He didn't have time to prepare for it. The whip connected with his back, causing a searing line of pain. He yelped, unable to help himself.

The next one landed on his face only a second later, placing a stinging line that started from his left temple and ended under his lips. Akkarin gasped and carefully licked his upper lip, expecting to taste blood.

But all he felt was his rapidly swelling lip. Quickly he sent his senses inward and found the skin on his back hadn't been cut open by the whip: it was only swelling. Surprised, he sent his senses outward and found that Dakova was holding a thin strap of leather, like a belt.

The strip landed onhsi back again, and he cried out, the knowledge of the punishment tool not lessoning the pain.

"Keep your mouth shut, _slave,_ or we'll keep doing this until you stop."

So what Takan had said was true. The next time the whip landed he managed to only let out a low moan. The fourth time he forced even that down, even though his back felt like it was on fire.

Dakova hit him with the strap a few more times, and Akkarin succumbed to the pain, which made it more bearable. Just when he was beginning to worry if Dakova would never stop, the Ichani kicked him in the thigh and ordered him to get up.

Akkarin draped his shirt over one arm and rose. Black and Yellow spots danced before his eyes. He closed his eyes wearily, aware of Dakova still standing by him. There was another silence, which Akkarin was beginning to fear.

The silence stretched unbearably long. Unable to stand it, Akkarin opened his eyes and turned his head to Dakova.

The second he turned the Ichani seemed to be regarding him speculatively. Then he noticed that Akkarin was looking at him and he raised his leather strap again.

Instinctively Akkarin flinched, but no blow came. Dakova nodded, seemingly satisfied. "Go to the fire, _slave. _Return after your meal. Now bow, say 'yes master' and leave."

Akkarin did so. It wasn't too different from in the Guild, where bowing was a daily exercise, except that it wasn't "Lord", "Lady" or some other aristocratic title in Krylia he had to use. As he repeated "master" Akkarin realized that this was the first time he'd uttered the word. Dakova was really trying hard to turn him into a slave. At least this time he'd told him what to do.

But he would not become one. Not on the inside, at least.

He turned and headed toward the fire before Dakova could change his mind.

Takan didn't seem to notice the mark on Akkarin's face as he handed him a bowl of porridge. Nor did he ask about what work Dakova had assigned him. Akkarin nodded in thanks as he accepted the bowl and then sat down a few steps away.

The other slaves sat nearby, most slurping down their meals in less than a minute, and then hurrying off with baskets and other tools. Akkarin estimated that there were a little more than twenty of them in all. Ocassionally one of them would glance his way cautiously, and then quickly look away.

He looked down at his bowl of porridge, and studied his reflection. The swollen stripe was as wide as his thumb. The reflection was blurry, so he couldn't make out whether, or how much, his face had thinned.

His stomach growled and he registered the nagging pain that had been there for the past few days. He brought the bowl's rim to his lips and drank slowly, savoring every mouthful. He needed some time before facing Dakova again.

The porridge seemed to disappear too quickly. He closed his eyes for a while, and then looked up. All the slaves, even Takan, had finished and left. He set his bowl on top of the unwashed stack, pulled on his shirt, groaning as the course cloth rubbed against the swelling skin, and trudged back to Dakova's tent.


	4. Chapter 4 Kariko

Chapter 4

Akkarin felt sick and hungry at the same time.

A single sliver of meat floated atop his bowl of porridge. His mouth watered but the taste was sour. He hastily washed it down with a gulp of porridge and then forced the rest of it down, but even with the meat the meal wasn't even half as enjoyable as mid-day's.

It felt like a stone had settled itself in his stomach. That stone was the knowledge that he'd given Dakova a powerful and dangerous tool: the knowledge of Healing magic.

The Ichani had been sitting by his tent enjoying his meal while Takan waited on him when Akkarin arrived. Dakova was having a plate of roasted meat, some green stalks and a bowl of thick brown mixture. The tantalizing smell of the meat also made Akkarin realize how good a cook Takan could be if he had the ingredients.

Dakova didn't seem to notice him then, but Akkarin didn't try to slip away. He stood off to the side and waited.

After Takan had taken away the dishes, Dakova looked at Akkarin for the first time. Akkarin had a feeling that he had always known that he was there. But of course, Dakova was a magician, albeit one who didn't know how to Heal.

Dakova beckoned for Akkarin to follow him into his tent. Inside the tent there was a bed consisting of a wide wooden board and four rocks holding it off the floor at the corners, a wooden trunk, and a few whips and clothes hanging from pegs on the tents poles. Dakova took a knife from a peg and sat on the edge of the bed.

Akkarin knelt and held out his right arm. He felt it a little unnecessary, since he couldn't have gained much power in less than an hour, but Dakova seemed to have succeeded in burning that standard position into his mind.

Then for the whole afternoon Dakova interrogated him on the subject of Healing magic, occasionally touching other subjects: Alchemy, history and Warrior skills. Akkarin could sometimes sense his burning hatred for the Guild when he saw how Akkarin's teacher had decribed the Sachakan War. He heard Dakova's mockings of the absurdity of the Warrior Discipline. But most of all, there was that delight that he'd discovered a new and useful kind of magic: Healing magic. Akkarin also found that no matter how hard he tried, he still couldn't prevent Dakova from reading his mind. After some time he just let Dakova shift through his memories, not paying so much attention himself.

After what seemed like eternity Dakova dismissed him.

Feeling more exhausted than ever, Akkarin forced himself to perform the rituals before stumbling out. He gazed out at the barren wasteland before him. Would he spend the rest of his life here?

He decided not to call the magicians from the Guild. If the Ichani were so strong, they wouldn't stand a chance. A war and the destruction of the Allied Lands just for himself was not right. And anyways, Dakova would probably know and finish him off just after the call.

It wasn't worth it. He'd decided to escape after he regained some of his strength this morning, which seemed so long ago… And during this time he could act as a sort of…spy for the Guild. It didn't make him feel better, but it did make his suffering more… purposeful.

So he needed to keep strong. He saw the slaves emerging from the seemingly hidden places where they worked and drifting toward the fire, where Takan seemed to be stirring a pot of porridge. He massaged his legs, which were sore and numb from kneeling the whole afternoon, and headed for the fire.

Now as he realized the full extent of what his small act of Healinf had led to, Akkarin felt sick. Dakova could flog with a real whip and Heal the wounds so the slaves wouldn't die so easily, could stop a person's heart―

Another realization hit him even more strongly. He could also do that…

But that was killing. And it was a great risk. It would be the last resort. He had to try escaping first.

Two days later when Akkarin went to Dakova's tent at noon, he saw that the Ichani was more finely dressed than usual. Dakova had before worn a fine but plain coat, trousers, and laced boots, but today he had on a thin fur coat and a belt adorned with gems. His boots seemed to be newly shined, and had buckles rather than laces.

His attire made Akkarin nervous. Was he planning on meeting someone? Another Ichani?

Akkarin knelt and held out his arm. There was another cut and that disconcerting sensation.

Dakova seemed satisfied by the amount of power Akkarin had. He left without a word, though, and when Akkarin summoned the courage to look up he was gone.

He lowered his arm and rubbed his heels absently. His not using Healing magic had helped, in a way. Calluses were beginning to form on the bottoms of his feet, making the tiring journeys between and over mountains less painful. The swollen strips from the last two days hurt even worse when the firewood settled on them, but he could stand it.

He kept a careful eye on the tent as he examined his body carefully for the first time in three days. Everything was functioning, but barely so. The nagging hunger was always there.

His skin looked much darker than before, either because of the sun or the dirt. Takan had shown him where the water buckets for washing and drinking were. He'd also said that when Dakova was moody he would check the slaves' 'appearance'. Akkarin fot the feeling that Takan felt the slaves represented the master in a way, which Akkarin agreed with silently.

The tingling numbness was starting to crawl up his legs. He shifted slightly and decided against standing up. Maybe his "work" for the day was to kneel here until he fainted.

The sun beat down hard. He was beginning to sweat and his mouth was dry. He'd drunk his fill before leaving in the morning, but had probably also perspired all the moisture away then after.

The tent flap shifted and Akkarin hastily lowered his head. He heard Dakova's boots on the ground and then saw them before him.

"Follow me." The boots moved away.

Akkarin got up and followed the Ichani a few steps away. They came to where Takan was by the fire.

"Takan," Dakova called. "Get the two that are washing clothes and tell them to find food. I have a visitor tonight."

So what he'd guessed was true. Takan bowed and hurried away. Akkarin had a feeling that Takan was sort of a 'head' of the slaves. Maybe it was because Dakova had seemed to only know his name only. And Akkarin's, though he didn't use it.

Dakova headed for the 'stables', where the three horses were kept. A slave who seemed to have failed to notice his master's arrival was called to saddle a horse. Dakova mounted and Akkarin wondered what to do.

His gaze was met by Dakova's for an instant. A meaningful glance, which confirmed his fear that he'd have to follow Dakova, who was on horseback.

The horse set out at a slow trot and Akkarin followed, keeping slightly behind the horse. He wondered how much he'd have to walk. It seemed that they were going to meet Dakova's visitor.

The horse picked through the rocky landscape carefully, avoiding the small hills and crevices. After a while Akkarin felt he saw a procession far away, crawling toward them.

Dakova had seen them too, for he halted his horse and turned his head to Akkarin, who hadn't noticed his immediate stop at first until he had come next to the Ichani.

"The visitor is my…brother. You are to call him 'master', understand?"

"Yes, master," Akkarin felt the contents of his stomach churn.

They continued forward. When Akkarin could just make out the shape of the man on a horse at the front of the procession, Dakova raised his hand in greeting, a gesture which the other man returned.

This procession consisted of thirty or so slaves, all of them carrying bundles or baskets. A few led the other two horses, which carried heavy loads.

They neared each other until they were only ten or so meters away. Then the two Ichani dismounted. Dakova tossed Akkarin the reins, which he caught and then gripped nervously. He'd ridden horses before, but wasn't sure if he could handle this one.

"So, my brother," Dakova brother called. "While I get the most slaves, you seem to have a knack for getting the best: Five with magic potential stronger than me, the best cook and most beautiful bed slave in this wasteland. And now you've got a pet Guild magician!"

Akkarin clenched his jaw as his gaze settled on him. There was a look of malice on his face that was even worse than Dakova's. Both of the Ichani had the same harsh and angry look, but this new one seemed to be worse.

They stalked over and Akkarin resisted the urge to back away, or simply mount the horse and run. He glance at the reins in his now shaking hands for a second and when he looked up Dakova's brother was right before him.

"So…" A hand grabbed his chin and lifted his head up until he was facing Dakova's brother, who was eyeing him menacingly. "Such a handsome face, and also long hair. Typical Kyrlian. So, _boy, _you're from the magicians' Guild?"

This Ichani had a grip like steel. Akkarin's jaw hurt terribly, but he was relieved to find that he could speak: "Yes, master."

Dakova's brother was very tall. Slowly he snaked his hand down Akkarin's throat and sank his fingernails into the flesh just above his collarbone.

He turned to Dakova. " Trained him well, have you, my brother? I've never been able to break one in less than a week."

Dakova grunted. "My first one. He'd more sensible than the others somewhat. Sadly."

His brother withdrew his hand and turned back to Akkarin, whose eyes had begun to water because of the pain. "I shall enjoy seeing what the Guild is like." And then to Dakova: "Let us goto your camp. I hope you have a feast waiting."

"Of course, Kariko." Dakova snatched the reins from Akkarin and remounted. Kariko headed back to his horse.

"Move on!" he bellowed to the procession of slaves behind him. Dakova's mount turned and so did Akkarin, glad to be away from the Ichani who could be even worse than Dakova for a while.

/

It was a week after Kariko's visit. Akkarin had gotten somewhat more accustomed to his work: no collapsing after his morning journey.

After the two days Kariko had stayed by his brother's camp, in which Akkarin was constantly used as a source of entertainment and hate-venting, and the two Ichani cursed and laughed at the Guild (Akkarin was shocked to see how they viewed the Sachakan War. He didn't want to believe it, but their anger and hatred were so fierce that it had to be genuine.), Dakova had assigned him work for the afternoon as well. Mostly it was to do other chores in camp, and everyday the chores changed. And every day he was beaten, for the other slaves seemed to always think it unnecessary to instruct him on what to do, or how to do it better, so hid work never satisfied Dakova.

And this made him appreciate Takan even more, whose terse but concise instructions always helped. The cook had brought him his meal those two nights when his head hurt and spun too much due to the two Ichani's prodding to even _find_ where the fire was. He wondered why Takan helped him so much. Maybe it was because he was the 'head' of the slaves, which had been confirmed during the past few days, but that didn't seem to be it.

But after his initial recovery the matter of escaping had surfaced. His slight recovery was because all reserves of fat in his body had been depleted. _Now_ he really couldn't hold out much longer.

He had to try. With his condition he didn't expect to live, but there was a chance. And he would rather die in the wasteland free than under the hands of Dakova.

I haven't typed the following in bold as this is part of the story:

So next is the "Dakova seemed to enjoy the hunt…and the punishment he dealt afterward" part in THL. I have decided to not elaborate on that in this fic, because K had done such a good job of it in her fic: **Akkarin and His Years in Sachaka**, which you can find on my Favorites list.

**A/N: Please review! **


	5. Chapter 5 The High Lord

Chapter 5 The High Lord

Akkarin closed the door of the High Lord's residence behind him. From the inside. Slowly he turned and took in the long corridor in front of him, the graceful staircase on one side, and the crystal chandelier hanging above him, As he beheld the size and style of this, the realization that he was now_ the High Lord_ settled in fully.

He had vowed to never practice Black magic again, but after Balkan had sensed his powers, which had been relatively unused in a week, and had suggested he run for the High Lord, an idea he was beginning to appeal to, he knew that if he were to be strong enough for the election, he needed an additional boost.

He had wrestled with that idea. He had vowed… And he really didn't like it. But this time he wouldn't be killing, and Takan would be willing. He'd then grimaced at how Takan's 'belief' that he was his "master" might strengthen if he used that…

But if he were High Lord there would be a lot more freedom for both of them: For him, no worrying about his scars being seen in the baths, or his nightmares overheard… Takan would get his kitchen and a room much better than those in the servants' quarters: After a few days sleeping in Akkarin's study, Lorlen had advised him to send Takan there.

And it was a position of power. He wanted to keep an eye on…them easier.

But it would make himself more well-known, which might get the news that he was alive and in the Guild faster to Sachaka.

Two against two. Takan's choice would determine everything.

So during one of their meals (it had taken some persuading to get Takan to eat with him, though it hadn't bothered him before during their journey) Akkarin had consulted Takan with this idea. He did everything he could to make it an inquiry and not a request, empathizing that Takan didn't have to if he didn't want to. By the time he'd finished, he was half-hoping his friend would refuse.

"Of course, master." Before Akkarin could speak Takan left the room and arrived a moment later with the Sachakan knife. He knelt before Akkarin with the knife on his wrists.

Akkarin kept his voice steady. "Takan, I thought that we'd agrred that you'd at least pretend to be only my servant. Remember that servants almost never kneel, and if they do never on both knees, to their _lords_."

Takan smiled, placed the knife on the table, and took his seat again. "I totally agree, Akkarin," he said smiling, and Akkarin again began to wonder how Takan really saw their relationship. "I've seen the High Lord's house. Plenty of privacy. I won't have to pretend anymore. Do you suppose they have a kitchen?"

Akkarin couldn't help smiling, too. "If there isn't I'll build you one. I'm not too sure of this though, Takan. Do you think they'll know that I…?"

Takan thought for a moment, then shook his head. "By what you've told me, they ban it, but aren't so paranoid that they'd suspect you if you only had twice or thrice your former strength."

So Akkarin had made his decision and now he was here. He was now the High Lord.

/

His sleeping room in the residence was just like his old one. It was simple, but to Akkarin it was luxurious enough.

Lorlen had joked about how plain the whole place was in general, commenting that all those years of studying in solitude had changed his taste. Maybe it had.

Akkarin sighed as he changed out of his black robes and into his night-clothes, surprised at how tired he was. A day at court was very consuming. People to remember, words to think through before being spoken… Lorlen had said he'd get used to it soon, and he hoped so.

He could barely feel the thin layer of cloth over his skin. A slight magical exertion warmed the sheets and he slipped in.

As the warm sheets pressed against his bare arms the peculiar feeling came again. He rolled over, frustrated. When would it stop?

His bed was made for two, something Lorlen had also joked about. He had chosen this actually because he'd fallen off his bed in his old room a few times during the nightmares, which didn't help to increase his sense of safety. But now as he looked at the empty space on the bed he sort of regretted it.

He'd thought that being High Lord would help him forget his past, but it wasn't so. First, this had happened because of the past. Second, the duties of this position still couldn't stop him from brooding and looking back. And also, the marriage proposals did _hurt_.

He felt so alone. Back there he was always so tired that he'd pass out even before his head touched the ground. Everyone was expecting him to marry. But he couldn't, one of the chief reasons being what his wife would say when she saw the scars, which would be inevitable.

And then there was Ilaia. What could those women from the Houses be compared to her?

Another twinge came, and Akkarin Healed the feeling away. He lay there for a while and then got out of bed for the herbal drink.

Takan made a mug of it for him every night. Before he'd gone to the servants' quarters Takan had brought Akkarin the drink after he woke up from his nightmares. Later he left it on Akkarin's nightstand after it was ready, and Akkarin would heat the drink with magic after he woke up.

Now, for curiously the first time, Akkarin wondered why he didn't drink it before he went to sleep so he'd have a whole peaceful night. His footsteps were loud in the big, mostly empty house as he descended the stairs.

His thoughts of Ilaia just moments ago made him realize the disconcerting truth. He _let_ himself have those nightmares for a while so he'd be able to see her again, to feel that temporary thrill of finding her alive and well. He could sometimes in those mostly-tragic dreams recall their first kiss and the feeling of her hand on his forehead, memories which were distorted when he tried to recall them awake. For three years his hate for Dakova and plans for revenge had dominated almost all of his free thoughts.

He found the kitchen which had been there for ages. Apparently his predecessors found eating in the food hall as uncomfortable as he.

Takan was bent over a small pot over the fire. When he heard Akkarin he set a steaming mug on a tray and presented it to him. "Master."

"Thank you, Takan," Akkarin took hold of the tray and willed the cup to stay where it was as he set the tray on the counter. He glanced at the bubbling contents of the pot. "You're practicing?"  
Takan nodded. "Different sauces, the second soul of food everywhere."

Akkarin smiled. "Don't stay here too long. I'll be the High Lord till I die, you know, which hopefully will be decades later."

Takan bowed as Akkarin turned and stepped out of the kitchen. As he climbed the stairs he marveled at how big the place was. Only four or five of the tens of rooms were actually used.

Lorlen had explored the whole residence with him. The place even from then felt dark and…unwelcoming, as if it still mourned the former High Lord's death.

Akkarin had been thankful that Lorlen had offered to come. As they walked through the dimly-lit corridors, their footsteps echoing, he half-expected to find an Ichani springing from a dark corner. So much for loving adventure.


	6. Chapter 6 On the Move

**A/N: So in chap one of **_**Akkarin and His Years in Sachaka**_** by Kalousamour Akkarin fails to escape and Dakova beats him up. Ilaia (or Yilana) tends his wounds and tells him about Sachaka. ****T****hey fall in love but Dakova learns through a mind-read and forbids it. ****P****lease read and review! **

Chapter 6 On the Move

Akkarin rolled a bundle of firewood, smaller than the one he usually carried, in his sleeping mat made pf woven rags. Not far away two slaves were disassembling the two tents. They were moving the camp.

He tied them mat in place and made the two loops Takan had taught him a few days ago. How many days? He had lost count already.

He thought he knew why Dakova had decided to move. For the past few days wood and food had gotten harder to find. Not long after Dakova learned of his affair with Ilaia, he'd had Akkarin collect the firewood on his own, which led to even more beatings. Even with Takan's advice he had to walk for seemingly miles before he found enough wood. At first he'd thought it was his lack of experience, but other slaves also struggled more than usual to finish their tasks.

So Dakova had decided to find a new place. The Ichani plundered the land and then left it to plunder more, which was probably why this remained a wasteland after all these years. Surprising what a few magicians could do.

Akkarin left the pack and headed for the fire, careful to avoid Dakova who was stomping around with his belt/whip. Apparently he was more vexed by this move than the slaves.

Takan was securing the cooking utensils in his mat. A few slaves were still eating, and when Akkarin drew near they seemed to hastily drain their bowls and hurry away.

Takan was the only one who didn't seem to mind. With his hands unnecessarily occupied with holding the spoons and ladles in place, he jerked his head towards the pot, still half full of porridge.

Akkarin nodded. Taking a bowl, he dipped the ladle deep into the mixture and came up with a ladle of almost all grain. Repeating this he filled his bowl with the unusually thick porridge to the rim.

What with the other slaves' reaction to both his attempt and the 'affair' Akkarin had expected Takan to grow cold, too. But instead Takan had almost warmed up even more, actually talking to him rather than giving advice in that impersonal way, and occasionally helping him in other ways.

The slaves usually didn't show friendship, but it was easy to tell who was on god terms with, and was willing to help, whom. Besides his helping Akkarin, Takan didn't seem to be interested in the complex relationships made by the other slaves, aloof, even. It was still a mystery why he chose to help Akkarin, especially since he had been unable to give anything back in return.

The slaves were new putting the poles in the wooden cart pulled by two horses. Dakova was filling his horse's saddlebags with Ilaia beside him.

Akkarin didn't see much of her these days. Only during his noon reports to Dakova did he catch a glimpse of her before she slipped away when seeing him. He could understand, but couldn't help but feel slightly hurt.

Ilaia had a tied bedroll by her feet. Her skin looked sickly gray in the rising sun, but Akkarin couldn't help gazing at her. He noticed how she'd done her hair up in a few braids that then ended in a bun at the back. Usually it was just one braid down.

She just stood by Dakova's horse with her burden while the other slaves hurried about, filling the cart and securing the luggage. She seemed to be both looking at the horizon and at Dakova. So serene, so dignified despite all…

After he finished Akkarin retrieved his pack and found Takan near the end of the roughly formed procession ready to go. The Sachakan nodded and they waited.

A few moments later Dakova wordlessly started, and the rest of them followed. Akkarin glanced back at where the camp used to be. Besides the completely bare earth there was nothing left. Looking further beyond he thought he could see the Steelbelt mountains' outline.

He was heading deeper into the Sachakan wasteland, farther away form Krylia, from the Guild, form home.

/

They marched through the wasteland in silence. Akkarin was quite used to walking barefoot and with a burden by now. But he didn't know how long this walk would be.

It seemed to be endless hills and valleys. Occasional streams cut through the weeds and rock-littered ground, where the slaves sometimes stopped at for a moment to have a drink. Dakova didn't seem intent on making sure the slaves didn't slip away or lag behind, only giving them a cursory glance once in a while, and everytime his gaze resting firmly and purposefully on Akkarin.

Akkarin concentrated mostly on finding a good place to set his feet. Despite his hardened soles a sharp stone could still cut in.

At noon he wondered if they'd stop for a meal. He raised his head cautiously and saw Dakova on his horse at the front. He seemed to be looking for something.

"He's looking for a hut," takan said in a low voice from beside him.

"What for?"

The Sachakan seemed strangely uneasy. "A chance to find new slaves, rest, and…let me cook the meal at the same time. I wonder…" He stepped to one side and shielded his eyes, gazing ahead as Akkarin moved on with the silent procession.

After a moment Takan saw what appeared to be a farm and a small house made of wood with a thatched roof. Dakova stopped and called for a halt. The two slaves herding the horses took the cooking pot, its supporters, and a bag of course grain off the cart.

"Takan," Dakova called. "Get them in line after the meal. Be ready to leave. And you." His gaze shifted to Akkarin. "Come with me."

Takan bowed and then tugged at Akkarin's pack. Understanding Akkarin slipped it off and handed it to him. As he wove through the other slaves he didn't feel so worried about what Dakova was planning to do as he was of how he'd make it without his meal.

The Ichani was already riding again. Akkarin jogged a few steps to catch up. They neared the hut. Smoke was billowing out of a small stone chimney. What would Dakova do?

At the front of the hut there was a small vegetable garden. Besides a few plants here and there there were no apparent vegetables. Maybe it had been recently harvested. Behind the hut there was the land that grew the crops. Recently harvested, too. What season was it now? He'd come in the beginning of fall…

Dakova halted at the edge of the garden, then dismounted and threw Akkarin the reins. With his traveling cloak billowing behind him in the breeze, he stomped carelessly through the garden and the door of the hut, which he kicked open.

Akkarin tensed. There were at first timid greetings and inquiries, then indignant protests, and Dakova's voice ringing out. Next came wails and screams proceeded by a flash of light. A force strike.

Another scream, then: "NO! Please, my son…"

Dakova's horse stood still and rigid beside him. Akkarin found himself shaking from rage and horror. Dakova _was _a monster.

A few more desperate pleas were followed by a door being kicked open. Akkarin felt what power he'd regained that day coursing through his body. He so wanted to strike Dakova, the monstrous bastard, down.

But as the Ichani swept out of the hut, dragging a Sachakan with tied hands and a bad burn mark, Akkarin knew that he would never be able to do that with his amount of power now. But he couldn't help glaring at the man as he dragged the barely-conscious Sachakan, now a slave, to the horse.

When they were mere feet apart Dakova dropped a bag on the ground and took the reins. Then as quick as a snake, he pulled the belt-whip from his belt and snapped it across Akkarin's face.

For a while all he could see was black and yellow spots. The whip had caught his lest ear hard and the whole left half of his head burned. When his vision cleared he saw Dakova sneering at him.

"Go to the storeroom by the hut, _slave. _Bring the sacks here."

Akkarin clenched his hands, but obeyed. As he passed the window of the hut he glanced in. A woman and a child lay on the floor, motionless.

He felt even sicker than the time he'd been forced to teach Dakova Healing magic.

The door to the house hung half on its hinges. Two sacks of rice lay in the middle of the otherwise empty room. Akkarin frowned. Why so little after harvest?

His pulse quickened as he grasped the opening of a sack. With food he could…

Moving as quickly as possible, he ripped a wide strip of cloth from the top of each sack. He grabbed a handful of the fine rice and used the two cloth strips to wrap in up. Stuffing the small bundle in the waist of his trousers, he slung the two sacks over his shoulder and hurried out.

Dakova was, strangely, examining the plants in the garden intently. He plucked a few leaves and smiled. Akkarin considered knocking him out with the sack of rice, but then sensed a shield around the Ichani.

The Sachakan was tied to the horse, on his knees. He seemed quite young, even younger than Akkarin.

So this was how Dakova got his slaves and part of the food. Innocent families torn apart and slaughtered. All efforts to cultivate the land made futile.

Dakova's whip suddenly snapped across his neck and involuntarily he jumped. Had the Ichani noticed the ripped opening of the sacks?

Dakova stalked past him and stuffed the leaves he'd harvested into a saddlebag. He hit the Sachakan with the whip.

"Get up, slave."

Shaking, the young man struggled up. Akkarin winced as he stumbled and nearly fell over again. Dakova remounted and with Akkarin still carrying the two sacks they headed back to the other slaves.

It was a short walk, and how to help the slave occupied him most of the way. By the time they reached the procession, which was already packed and ready to go, he still hadn't found a way to help the swaying and shocked Sachakan.

"You, put those bags on the cart," Akkarin handed the sacks to a slave in charge of the cart and slipped through the line, looking for Takan. He knew he mustn't get his hopes up for a meal, but still.

Takan's face seemed suddenly hard to find amoung the other Sachakans. Akkarin realized disconcertingly that he couldn't quite remember what Takan looked like. Suddenly a hand grasped his arm. Turning, Akkarin knew it was Takan. The Sachakan gave him his pack along with a bowl of porridge.

Akkarin nodded in thanks and ate as they came to the hut again, where Dakova ordered the slaves to break open a trapdoor to a store-pit under the store-house. There were many more sacks of grain there, and the carts were filled. Akkarin wondered why dakova hadn't brought the other slaves here so he wouldn't have to make an additional journey. Takan said that the farmers would run if they heard a procession coming. Now thinking of it, they did make a lot of noise. Dakova was crude, but also shrewd.

As the sun began to set they set up a temporary camp. Some of the newly-plundered grain was used for their porridge. Then Akkarin was ordered to wash the bowls while most of the slaves erected the two tents.

As soon as the new slave regained some strength, ht began pleading with Dakova to let him go. All the slaves tensed and worked with a renewed zeal. Akkarin sat on the ground dipping the bowls in the ice-cold water as the slave was beaten and tied to the bottom of the whipping post for the night.

After he finished Akkarin covered his mouth with his aching hands and warmed them. In the slaves' tent, he didn't pass out immediately after lying down. Instead, he thought he heard the new slave's moaning among the whistling winds, and also the woman's desperate plea for her son before her own life was taken.


	7. Chapter 7 The Second Attempt

**A/N: Another thanks for the reviews! I do believe that Akkarin wouldn****'****t try to escape ****only**** once. But not too many times either. ****I****n THL he said that he and Takan ****'****had a habit of helping each other out****'****. I know that ****before**** I only wrote about how Takan helped Akkarin, and now I****'****ve finally thought of a way for Akkarin to return a favor. ****Please**** review!**

Chapter 7 The Second Attempt

During his second attempt to escape, Akkarin got considerably farther away from the camp, as he was on horseback. But somehow Dakova managed to find him again.

Akkarin had used all his power on the horse when the strike hit, not that he could actually shield himself from it even if he had what power he'd regained in less than a day. The force strike made him topple off the horse and fall dangerously close to its clomping hooves.

A series of heat strikes rained down on him and Akkarin did his best to curl up in order to decrease his chance of getting hit. They didn't hurt as much as the fact that he'd failed again. He'd staked everything on this attempt. He could do no more.

/

After they'd found a place with enough food and water the slaves began to prepare for the winter. About half the slaves, Akkarin sometimes among them, were sent out every day to find food from dawn to dusk, returning only once at noon to empty their filled baskets and have a meal. Two thirds of the remaining half, including the new slave Dakova had subdued in a week and a half, went out for firewood. The rest worked more than before at camp to finish the chores there.

Most slaves had one to three steady jobs to do, but Akkarin had his changed everyday. Dakova sometimes liked to keep him at camp and then send Ilaia out with errands. Akkarin knew the Ichani enjoyed it when he involuntarily watched Ilaia drift past him without meeting his eyes.

Sometimes Akkarin did wonder how Ilaia felt for him now. He could stand the torments, but could she? It wasn't fair, especially to her. But once as he saw her with an armful of Dakova's dirty clothes come toward where he was kneeling by the washboard, his hands coated in a thin layer of the freezing water he had warmed as much as he dared, he saw her looking at him directly for the first time in months. He saw in her eyes what he'd seen in many girls' back in the Guild, and also something deeper and sadder.

Then she smiled almost imperceptibly as she let the clothes slip into the tub in one graceful motion and then walked away.

Akkarin found himself grinning foolishly at her retreating figure and found his work just a bit more bearable.

But hearing her screams at night made him wonder if she'd be better off with him gone. That acted as a great incentive for his planning and preparation of a second attempt at escaping.

There was a lot to do. It was too cold to try in the winter, so Akkarin bided his time and began to execute his plan.

When in camp he used every opportunity he had to build trust with one of the two carting horses. Dakova's horse, he'd found grimly, had a magical binding on its chain.

In the frantic frenzy to find enough food for the winter, Akkarin managed to save more food, which he hid between the rags of his mat. Surreptitiously he got a general idea about where they were. He'd studied maps before coming, and hoped he knew the way back.

Winter was a great trial here. A pit was dug to store all the food they'd gathered: nuts, dried meet and berries, preserved roots and the plundered grain. Yet that was only the last resort, when food could no longer be found.

Takan had taught Akkarin how to weave and sew together a thin coat and a pair of sandals that would only last through the winter with dried grain stalks and some of the cloth sacks that used to contain grain. But that wasn't enough to ward off the cold. As winter really came it was impossible to go out and not get frostbitten without a thick long coat. The slaves had four coats made of well-worn hides or furs in all, which were used by the few slaves who had to go out. Most of the time they stayed inside the tent ― which was now smaller, shorter, and warmer, as the tent poles actually consisted of two shorter ones tied together; in winter they'd use all the short poles to make a shorter cone of a tent and wrap the tent material twice over the poles ― huddling around a small fire or doing chores like sewing or washing.

Akkarin had time to brood over his plan and rest. Sometimes he wondered how Ilaia was at Dakova's tent, or remembered the good old days at the Guild. It he got back― no, when he got back ― he knew he would already never be the same.

Though Dakova had plenty of food and power and warmth he was still more irritable than usual. And aggressive. When one of the slaves came back one day with only a few sticks of firewood, the Ichani gave him such a violent beating that he died a day later, which was probably due to the fact that Dakova had left him by the whipping post and order the other slaves to not help him.

Dakova also drank much more, which made Akkarin especially nervous. In the Guild they'd been warned to never get drunk. Magic was dangerous when used recklessly.

Once when he trudged out of the salves' tent to report to Dakova and get tormented for a while in one of the long coats, which only succeeded in keeping the cold out, he saw a magical flash coming from where Dakova's tent was and knew something was wrong.

He took a deep breath and started forward, the wind stinging his face. Dakova was blocked by his tent, and when Akkarin finally struggled over he gasped.

Dakova was indeed drunk. But that was not the terrifying thing: Takan was lying curled up nearby, a smoking hole in the long coat he wore.

Akkarin hurried over, keeping an eye on the Ichani, who was now cursing at the sky and laughing.

He fumbled with the buttons on the long coat but his fingers were too clumsy. Takan's breathing was labored and his face was contorted with pain. Hastily Akkarin grasped his wrist and sent his senses into the Sachakan's body.

It was caused by a heat strike. No organs were damaged, but the skin and flesh where the strike had hit ― on the very right of Takna's waist ― was badly burned. Hopefully he could fix it.

Akkarin didn't hesitate as he reached for his power and began to Heal the wound. For the past few months he'd Healed many of his own injuries and spent quite some time thinking about how to Heal with the least amount of power, so he wasn't out of practice.

As he persuaded the damaged nerves to heal themselves with dakova dangerously close, Akkarin forced himself to concentrate and not draw up a shield, which would not only alert Dakova but also be of no use.

As the skin began to Heal Akkarin felt his power dwindling. He knew he wouldn't be able to Heal Takan completely, and he felt Dakova was beginning to register their presence.

"Takan," he whispered. "Can you move? We need―"

An obvious stun strike whizzed past them, very off the mark. Takan's eyes opened and widened in surprise when he saw Akkarin.

"I've Healed most of the wound," Akkarin felt the pitch of his voice get higher as he ducked a strike that just might have hit him. "Takan…"

Takan seemed even more surprised, but with a practiced motion he saw up and moved the hand which Akkarin realized he was still grasping on the ground.

Akkarin hesistated as he felt the Sachakan's course skin under his hand, then tightened his grip and helped takan up. The man winced and closed his eyes for a moment. To Akkarin it seemed as if he were struggling with himself.

"The would still needs time to heal," he said casually. "You shouldn't put all your weight on it."

Takan seemed to sigh, then hesitantly he leaned on Akkarin.

Akkarin nodded and slipped an arm under his, and began the careful walk back to camp.

Takan was slightly shorter than he, and looked quite sick. Akkarin knew his Healing magic had only prevented him froim suffering the worst of the pain. The new muscles and half-healed skin still needed time.

They practically fell into the slaves' tent. A few slaves, probably those who were waiting for the long coats to return, looked up. When they saw Takan in such a state and drifted over others noticed.

"Dakova's drunk," he said to the tent on general, not caring what they thought of his using their master's name. He found no need to elaborate as Hitsu, the second best at medicines behind Ilaia, scooted over to where they'd laid Takan by the fire. Carefully he began to take of the long coat.

"I've already Healed most of the burn," Akkarin took off his long coat and held it aloft casually for a while until another slave took it and began preparing to go outside. "The muscles will need some rest and the skin isn't completely healed."

Hitsu nodded. Takan's shirt was off and Akkarin saw scars from a flogging on his shoulderes. He didn't look at the would straight on, no wanting to see. The Sachakan seemed barely conscious. Dakova might've just taken his power.

A few slaves saw the wound and glanced at Akkarin speculatively before returning to their chores. The slave who'd taken the long coat from Akkarin returned with a bucket of water, which Hitsu used to wash the wound.

Akkarin squatted down as he saw Takan tense and then fall limp again. His stomach began to protest against his use of so much power and he fell asleep curled in a corner wondering who'd make dinner.

Later when Takan woke he didn't thank Akkarin, and Akkarin was sort of glad he didn't. Takan had helped him so much in the past few months. It was the least he could do.

/

If hid punishment for escaping the first time was an atrocity then this one was hell. For years he'd remember the landscape before him as the first lashes hit: the horizon tinged red, a brilliant red so unlike the color of the half-dried blood, his own blood, splattered on the post before him. And Dakova's ruthless laughter and his own uncontrolled scream…

When he regained consciousness every inch of his body hurt. Beside that he only knew he was lying facedown. After drifting in and out of sleep because of the pain for a while Takan came and fed him some porridge.

It was so painful, his head being lifted so he could swallow, but he managed until the last spponful.

Takan muttered something about Dakova using magic on the lashes because Akkarin seemed more dead than alive after the beating. Then hitsu came and checked a few places, his rough hands sometimes brushing or lifting Akkarin's legs and torso, leaving him to wonder how much of his skin was exposed as he let fatigue take over

/

Just lie the last time Dakova had all the slaves stand around the shipping post while he dealt with Akkarin. This time he also made Ilaia stand a few paces in front of Akkarin as he was tied to the whipping post. He couldn't look at her, so he focused on the horizon just above her. He told himself not to scream, but before the whip came whistling down he didn't know what a real flogging was like yet…

Dakova had only used Healing magic to make scabs form on the lashes before Akkarin lost too much blood. As Akkarin healed he wished more and more that the Ichani would let him die. When he could stand he was sent to do chores again. As he struggled with clothes laden with water he seriously considered killing himself. Living this meaningless, horrid life…

But there didn't seem to be a way to do it. He wasn't ordered to chop wood again, nor could he find a tree with a branch able to hang him on.

Sometimes he suspected whether he was really determined to die or not. Secretly he wished Lorlen or somebody would get worried and find he'd gone to Sachakan and some and rescue him. He knew it was terribly far-fetched and naïve; and it would be quite embarrassing. But as spring ended and summer came he didn't care so much anymore.


	8. Chapter 8 Wine, and not Auren Dark

**A/N: As the title suggests, this will be an****…**** interesting chapter. Akkarin may no look back (I hate that honorary sculpture of him in the second trilogy, where he****'****d looking back in the direction of Sachaka) but he****'****ll have to face his past. ****O****f course his acceptance of it is sort of conflicting in a way. ****I**** wrote this based on my own thoughts ****on my****childhood**** as a TCK (Third Culture Kid), which was epic and beneficial but ****sometimes****humiliating**** and painful: the best ****I**** could do to make Akkarin****'****s feelings realistic.**

**A**** full ****account**** of the first memory Akkarin has in this chapter can be found in chap 4 The Female Ichani of Kalosoumor****'****s fic Akkarin and his Years in Sachaka****―**** which can be found on my favorites list****―**** where Akkarin is forced to be a bed slave for a female Ichani.**

**By the way. ****C****an anyone please tell me what happens in The Traitor Queen? **

Chapter 8 Wine

_F__or a disconcerting moment Akkarin thought she was Ilaia. __T__he woman lying next to him in bed was characteristically Sachakan, but she wasn__'__t Ilaia__: the harsh smile on her lips and the way she gripped his arm forcefully…_

_Like those nights even worse than nightmares, Akkarin had forced down as much wine as possible. __E__verything tilted and spun and twisted, but he could still see the female Ichani so close to him. __H__e could see his own forearm, crisscrossed with scars, laid awkwardly over her bare back._

_S__he tightened her grip. __"__Well?__"_

"No," Akkarin gasped as he paced in his room. "No…"

But the more he tried to not remember the more he did. Think of something else. Anything…

But the scene kept replaying itself. Akkarin wanted to hit something, but there wasn't anything he could smash without doing the same to his hand without using magic. And it would startle Takan…

He sighed as he regarded the bottom of the mug. His body had developed a resistance to the old herbal drink.

At his will the globe light faded away, leaving him bathed in the moonlight filtered through the window.

He wanted to scream at the moon. Fine, encourage madness in those who were perpetrating crimes, but why him? He wasn't doing anything wrong. He didn't want to know that much about black magic… oh was a lying miserable fool he was.

_H__e cut the slave__'__s forearm with shaking hands and began to __practice__ the newly-learned magic. __A__s he scoured the last of Maka__'__s power the slave__'__s heart stopped beating__…_

Shame and fury and sorrow clashed inside him. No… Do not look back do not look back donotlookback…

He wanted the memories to go away so much that he began to feel reckless. Still in his nightclothes he padded out of his room and down to the guest room. He created a globe light, which illuminated a shelf with a few bottles of wine.

Two bottles of Auren Dark and a bottle of ordinary wine. He drank the former just to impose his eccentric image of High Lord. The latter was just _there._

His handed reached out for the bottle. He'd never tried this before.

With wine bottle in hand he started up the stairs, then stopped and retreated to the lower chambers, where he found a room at random and entered. Increasing the glow of his globe light he surveyed its interior, and then closed the door behind him.

After pulling out the cork with magic, he extinguished the light and lifted the wine to his lips.

/

He woke to a splitting headache. Groaning he Healed it away and was confused to find that his store of power had diminished considerably.

Opening his eyes Akkarin found himself in an unfamiliar room. He turned his head to one side and saw that he was lying on a quilt spread on the floor. He was wearing his black robes. What had happened?

Memories came back accompanied by a dull throbbing. He'd taken a bottle of wine and gone to the lower chambers. The feeling of so much wine going down his throat, like fire…

Now that his mind was clear again his attempt seemed absurd and too reckless. He didn't feel any better, though he couldn't remember what had happened after the first ten gulps. But it wasn't worth it: he could've brought down the whole building…

"Master?"

Akkarin's head snapped around 180 degrees. Takan sat by a wall, arms folded over his bent knees. "Master?" using only his left arm he stood up with a glass of water and shuffled over, his right forearm over his stomach in a makeshift sling.

"What happened?" Akkarin croaked as he struggled up, alarmed. He felt he knew what had caused it and hated himself even more for being so foolish.

"It didn't hit me. I think only the heat emanating from the strike got me," Takan handed Akkarin the cup and smiled wryly. "Your aim, sadly, was much better than Dakova's, though. Drink that first." He added as Akkarin reached a hand toward him. "Proper magic requires a clear mind, doesn't it?"

What had he done? Akkarin was anxious to see how serious the wound was. Takan could stay calm and expressionless after a severe beating. The drink was sour, like vinegar, and was even better than the Healing magic.

Takan had knelt by him and Akkarin grasped his wrist. "I'm sorry," he murmured as he sent his sense outward. "I didn't…"

He didn't what? Mean to hurt Takan? He'd known deep down as he drank that Takan would come. Was he any different from Dakova?

It was caused by a heat strike. Takan had been right that it had only burned the skin. Akkarin used as much power as he could and managed to Heal it completely.

Takan slipped the sling off. "I have another kind of herb. You should have told me it wasn't working."

As always, Takan knew. Akkarin nodded as he buried his face in his hand. So reckless…

"I'm sorry," he mumbled. He could feel his throat constricting. What was wrong with him?

"You didn't do much, nothing that magic won't fix, anyway," Takan stood up. "Much better than Dakova, remember. Dinner is ready."

Akkarin waited until Takan's footsteps faded away. Then he let the shock take over.

/

Takan set the last of the four dishes on the table and took his seat across from Akkarin. Each dish wasn't luxurious, but all were diligently made. They didn't use the ladles to transfer the food to their plates before eating, but just dug in.

Meals with Takan were the best. Almost all the meals he ate at the Guild were cooked by Takan, but eating with him was what made it really enjoyable. When Lorlen came Takan played the role of the servant, and with Lorlen, however relaxed and unsuspicious he was, Akkarin still had to be careful and not let things slip. He knew they what they said about his amazing conversing skills, and this was probably why.

Half the time Takan ate by himself because Akkarin was either in court or in case of mornings, asleep. The new herb worked a bit too well.

Those meals seemed to be one of the few opportunities they had during the day which they could catch up with each other. With Takan he could say most anything. And not so many table manners; he had enough practice at court.

/

Though the new herb worked, Akkarin knew it wasn't right to depend on something like that. After three years. Most of the time he didn't remember, but when it came it came hard and painful.

His life now was fine: High Lord and Lorlen and Takan, but it was so different from before his journey for adventure. Besides learning more about Black Magic, keeping an eye open for suspicious events, and engaging himself in another few interesting subjects, nothing interested him. The gossip and rumors seemed so meaningless and bland, as were the dealings at court…

He knew so much more than before. Seen so much, experienced so much, heard so much. Sometimes he scorned the other magicians' blissfully ignorant lives, and would also wish that he was living such a life too.

He felt more…alive than before. He knew what good and evil really were, what Black Magic really was… But at what price? Sometimes he'd even be glad for it, in a way, and sometimes he'd give anything to be was naïve and adventurous as before.

But it had all happened, and there was no changing it. If all that hadn't happened, he wouldn't be _him. _Did he like himself now, aloof and mysterious and powerful, hiding a painful past?

Just go on, do not look back.

**A/N: Thanks for reading this chapter. I****'****ve published another fic here, a poem-fic, called Let It Go. (Yes, it has a connection with Frozen) It****'****s about Akkarin. Please read that!**

**Also, if the ****'****cover****'**** of this fic has changed from Trudi****'****s drawing of Akkarin to mine****…**** I drew that, but I****'****m not the best artist and ****I**** don****'****t think **Akkarin looks like that completely… XD

Please review! :D


	9. Chapter 9 Ilaia

**A/N: Ilaia dies in this chapter. As always, to get a detailed account( I only explained the aftermath) I recommend Kalosomor****'****s fic Akkarin and his years in Sachaka, which, as always, you****'****ll find in my favorites list.**

**A****lso, like I****'****ve said in the previous chapter, I****'****ve published another fic here called Let It Go. ****P****lease read that too! **

Chapter 9 Ilaia

The days simply wore on. Eat, work, eat, work, eat, work, sleep, eat, work…

Akkarin's belief that Black Magic was in itself evil crumbled. Black magic, by what he'd deduced from Dakova, was just taking another's power and blood gems and mind-reading. But evil was something… magic had its limits: force-strike heat-strike mind-strike stun-strike Black Magic, but mundane cruelty did not.

Dakova's mood had changed for the worse, the most evident sing being that he went out of his way to punish slaves cruelly. Once Akkarin had been forced to watch a slave who'd tried to escape eaten alive by yeels. He'd thrown up as Dakova, delighted by both Akkarin's and the other slave's pain, laughed. For days Akkarin felt sick as the cruel and revolting scene replayed itself in his mind.

Black magic was just a kind of magic. The user determined its nature.

Kariko and the female Ichani visited a few times, the only and unwelcome change in the marginal life he led now. Akkarin had gained a deeper understanding with Ilaia, and there was no need to touch each other to express their love. That way of expressing love, after all their abuse, meant very little. But how Akkarin wished he could make love to someone he actually loved…

/

A nut tree stood partially hidden by a cliff. Akkarin checked the straps to the basket tied to his back and climbed up to it, his hands and eyes seaching got handholds as he edged upward.

He held his breath as he surveyed the tree. Squinting he could see small brown tear-shaped nuts hiding among the leaves. There were plenty of them. Hopefully, it would be enough to satisfy Dakova.

Taking a sturdy stick which had been tied to the side of his basket, Akkarin hit the branches of the tree. The nuts came raining down, falling to the ground with pleasant thuds. He struck the nuts down until the little 'step' of the cliff was covered with them. Then he sat down and began to scoop them into the basket.

He worked methodically as part of his mind wandered off. Looking past the tree he saw just how high he was. Hmmm… could he die by jumping down from here?

Always thinking of ways to die…

He let himself grin, then considered it seriously. It depended on how he landed, but if it didn't work out it would result in a serious injury like broken bones. And he'd project his thought out involuntarily. Dakova was not going to loose his pet so easily.

…and always dismissing them as ineffective. Coward. Fool.

Half the basket was filled, like Dakova had ordered. Precise requirement for the food gathered meant another Ichani was coming. Akkarin collected the rest of the nuts and stuffed them in a pouch he'd made with the remains of his winter jacket, and then started the more tedious climb down.

/

More than a year stuck in this miserable camp, and this was the first time Akkarin saw the Ichani fight. Impossible powerful strikes ricocheted off shields and plunged into the earth, creating craters and crevices and cave-ins. The Ichani kept their wasteland a wasteland.

Akkarin watched in amazement and horror as Dakova and another Ichani fought ruthlessly. There were no rules at all, no inner shields. This was really magical combat, but not what he'd dreamed of before. Or was it?

"Akkarin," Takan said urgently. "It's not safe..."

Dakova dodged a heat strike, his face expressionless but tense. Akkarin nodded and followed Takan back to the cave where they hid.

/

"Akkarin!?" the voice was a hoarse whisper, and Akkarin couldn't tell who he was. Why was he so weak and drowsy? Was he sick?

Then he remember.

No… it couldn't be. Oh, Ilaia…

"Akkarin," a bowl's rim met his lips. "Ilaia's body. We're moving soon." Everything seemed to collapse. Ilaia…

He choked down the porridge still warm, and struggled to opwn his eyes.

Takan helped him and over to where Ilaia lay. As soon as Akkarin saw her, still so serene and beautiful, his knees gave way under him. He knelt by her, and with shaking hands traced the features of her face for the first and last time.

"I'll tell you when our master is back," Takan gripped his shoulder for a moment and then walked away.

Akkarin leaned in closer and kissed Ilaia's cold lips, took in her features once more, and then let the tears fall.

/

Later Takan woke him and Akkarin realized he had fallen asleep crying. He washed his face and despite being weak from exhaustion and grief, helped Takan prepare the cart as Dakova ate.

Looking at the Ichani, Akkarin felt a mixture of hate and anger bubbling inside him. This was the man who had tortured and tormented him and Ilaia, who had killed Ilaia and all the other slaves in order to kill someone else, who had kept him alive so he'd feel the whole pain of losing her.

He knew he was angry, and irrationally so. He knew Ilaia would be better off dead than living like now. But he let the blind fury take the place of grief and sorrow. Oh how he was going to kill than man one day. At least he was going to outlive that bastard.

After Dakova finished eating they set off. All the slaves' mats were on the cart, but the load in whole wasn't much more than before as much of the stored food had been exhausted during the two-day long battle.

Akkarin knew they had to leave Ilaia behind, but what he hated was he couldn't even bury her. Vultures would find her soon…

But what could he do? He took the reins of one of the carting horses and made himself not look back.

As the sun set Dakova decreed the place they'd currently arrived at fit for camp. He then ordered them to put up his tent and went to unsaddle and settle the horses.

Akkarin looked at Takan, wondering how the two of them could erect a whole tent, which took at least six slaves.

Takan returned a reassuring glace, and then went to the cart. Dubious, Akkarin followed him and did as he was instructed.

The Sachakan tied all the long poles together at one end in a complex way and then they lifted the poles up until they were standing tied-together end up.

Now was the hard part, the one Akkarin was worried about. Before, each slave would take a pole, standing in a circle surrounding the poles, and all would pull at once so that the tent formed the shape of a cone. After that putting on the canvas was easy.

He asked Takan about this. The Sachakan explained that they did so as it would be safer, but the poles could be pulled out in quick succession and still stand. Akkarin took a pole on one side of the bundle of pole, and Takan the other. Together they pulled and while striking the end of the pole they were holding into the ground, reached for the next one. It was hard and intense work, but in no time the frame was erected.

They didn't finish until the sun had set completely. Or rather, Akkarin didn't. Takan had been called halfway through securing the canvas by Dakova to cook his meal. Now as the Ichani finished and levitated four stones into the tent for his bed, Akkarin rubbed his arms, sore from tying the canvas to the poles, and wondered where he and Takan would sleep. It was too dark to make their tent.

Dakova carried his truck in and shut the tent flap. Akkarin wondered how strong the Ichani was now. Somehow, like always, he couldn't sense his power…

Takan passed hi a bowl of porridge and they ate by the dwindling flames of the fire. It was getting cold, and Akkarin worried that they'd have to sleep out here. They could make a makeshift tent…

Takan spoke: "We'll sleep in the cart tonight."

Akkarin turned to him, surprised, and after a moment of silence understood and nodded.

The cart was wide as half a tent pole and long as one. Together they pushed the dishes and sacks of grain to the sides, covered the bottom with mats and used a few poles to support the canvas put on top.

Takan pulled out the four long coats and handed two to Akkarin. "It's going to be cold with out a fire and only us."

Akkarin nodded and started to slip on the first coat, but in the dark he saw Takan hold up a hand.

"You should take off your shirt and trousers. They're drenched in sweat," he said haltingly. "When you fall asleep the moisture…"

He walked to the other side of the tent and pulled off his shirt.

It made sense: Akkarin's clothes were damp due to all the work he'd just done, but he hesitated. He realized he was nervous. This was the first time he'd actually been alone with Takan at night, and…

He was being paranoid, he chided himself. He changed quickly into the coats, aware of the cold already attacking his skin.

Takan was already in the cart, which was still half uncovered. Tentatively Akkarin climbed in and used a few mats to cover himself. He pulled the canvas over the cart fully and lay on his back.

The furs were warm and soft against his skin. He sighed softly and closed his eyes.

"In a few days our master will have more slaves, you know," Takan said absently beside him.

"Hmm?"

"Our master and his brother… it is known that one of them will avenge the other's death. Kariko wouldn't want his brother to be killed, which will then make other Ichani more daring to kill him. He'll give out master another few slaves to strengthen him enough."

"I hope so," how long had Takan been a slave? The Sachakan was thirty at least, but the life here had a way of making people age faster. How many times had Takan been spared his life and watched as his fellow slaves and friends were killed?

**A/N****: Takan is also a reasonably amazing character. **

**L****ike in chap 7, the tents of the wasteland are amazing! :D please review!**


	10. Chapter 10 Vengeance

**A/N: A ****special**** thanks to s. cinnamon for reviewing! ****:****D this chapter was a bit gruesome when I imagined it, but when written down it****'****s nicer than chap 2, somehow. ****B****ut ****actually**** it****'****s not so. **

Chapter 10 Vengeance

There was lots to do for the slaves at camp: food to be painstakingly gathered, wood to be chopped, clothes and dishes to be washes, horses to be fed and cared for, things to be repaired, and master and slaves alike to be fed.

Before more or less then twenty slaves had hurried about, struggling to finish all those chores. Now only Akkarin and Takan were left. Even though Dakova took care of the horses himself and there were less dishes to wash and less food and firewood to be gathered because of the sharply decreased number of slaves, Akkarin felt himself being worked to his limit, and maybe even beyond.

They woke at dawn and worked in frenzy till midnight, and just barely got everything done. What consumed most of their time were the long treks through the wasteland in search of food, water, and firewood. There were bags of grain, but Dakova still wanted vegetables.

They'd take turns going out, one before noon, and one after that, collecting whatever they could find. At camp Takan cooked and Akkarin did any chores there were.

Dakova didn't give any beatings, and Akkarin knew the Ichani wouldn't make anyone of them unable to work, at least not until the new slaves arrived. If they did.

Akkarin had considered if he could overcome Dakova, now that the Ichani was comparatively weak. But Dakova had taken more power then usual form him and Takan every day. And the more disturbing fact: a weaker magician could win a stronger one with tact, but Akkarin, sadly, was very out of practice. Not to mention he'd been quite strong back at the Guild, and therefore hadn't paid too much attention to how to use those ways.

He wasn't sure how many days had passed. Every night it was pure agony to change, with his limbs resisting more work, but he gritted his teeth and managed because he couldn't let Takan do all the work.

Now he knew what not living when being alive was. Even two bowls of porridge for each meal didn't make up for all he used up. His mind was completely blank almost all the time. In a way, it was better then thinking of Ilaia. But oh the pain…

Something was wrong with him and he knew it. Takan was obviously faring better them him; the Sachakan had also seemed to notice Akkarin's problem and had given him a bowl of boiled herbs.

Those were the worst days ever in his life. He simply drifted and stumbled around, working and working, and then collapsing and passing out at once.

And finally Kariko came with the slaves. By then Akkarin felt more dead than alive. He leaned heavily against the cart as he watched without seeing, wondering if he'd finally be able to rest.

/

They would be moving the next day, which paced a kind of numbed and detached dread in Akkarin. He knew he wouldn't be able to stand it. Oh he could barely walk...

Takan woke him a while after he'd passed out in the newly-erected tent and coaxed a bowl of bitter liquid down. Akkarin never felt as broken inside as when he felt Takan's surprisingly cool hand on his forehead and then through half-lidded eyes saw the Sachakan frown and shake his head.

/

The next day Akkarin remained upright for about a mile before his knees gave way under him and he fell slowly to the ground.

Before that happened he had struggled on, his legs gone numb and not even his. Moving then caused a strange pricking sensation that made him want to scream and cry and give up.

But Takan still held his arm, guiding Akkarin forward and telling him they would soon be resting. The Sachakan's voice was calm and encouraging, but Akkarin knew there was no hope left, that Takan just hoped he'd be freed of his agony sooner by using everything up.

The rock-littered ground seemed so soft and welcoming underneath. He heard the procession shuffle past as he lay facedown, waiting for it to end.

A small part of his wasn't willing to give up: he hadn't gotten Dakova, had died a slave. But what was to be done?

The clomping of hooves got louder as Akkarin's senses began to weaken. He felt a kick to his side, "get up, slave."

The calm and slight regret was replaced by horror and despair. He'd planned ―hoped― to die without Dakova noticing until he's passed away.

A line of fire seared across his back. Akkarin knew it was made by a real whip because his shirt was still on. He could distinguish pains now.

"Get up, now!"

Akkarin didn't try. He knew what was coming next: he'd seen before as other slaves had collapsed during the move. He'd probably be dead before the whipping ended.

He felt himself being forced up by a magical force. Then Dakova grabbed his throat and shook his roughly.

"Haven't been right since your supposed great love died, have you?" he threw Akkarin to the ground, where he landed in a twisted heap. "A proper whipping will bring you to your senses."

Akkarin got ready, but something didn't seem right. "Back to his senses"?

A hand grasped his arm, sending a considerable amount of Healing power into Akkarin's body. He realized in horror what was happening, and then the whip came down.

He moaned softly as his back was slashed open again. He was now dimly aware of all the slaves standing silently around and wondered vaguely who was the best at healing now.

After twenty or so lashes Dakova Healed his wounds partially, and ordered two slaves to lift Akkarin onto the cart. Oh the accursed Healing magic… everything in his body was now functioning, but he was still terribly weak and the strips on his back throbbed, sending waves of pain through his body as the cart bumped on.

And Dakova would not let him die. Again.

/

Ironically, after a week lying down, Akkarin felt much better. Winter didn't require so much from him, and he spent most of his time in the slaves' tent. Spring offered water warm enough to wash with, and in summer the tents were erected in a way that not only protected them from the wind at night but also made the interior and dry cool.

The only thing that was different from before Dakova's duel was Ilaia. Every time he thought of her there came a torrent of sorrow and anguish at what would have been if things were not so. The worst thing about it was that the female Ichani, who still visited once in a while and gave Dakova gold or luxuries in exchange for a night with Akkarin, seemed to look more like Ilaia. After the wine Akkarin always got confused for a terrifying yet exhilarating instant, thinking that this woman was the one he loved. Sometimes thinking so did make his task easier…

As he was now even more adept at his work, he had time to plan his revenge: remembering almost-forgotten dueling strategies, coming up with pragmatic ones, and getting to know the best route back.

/

Akkarin slumped against the side of a hill. It was noon, with the sun beating down mercilessly. A good and welcome reason for a rest.

He was sweating profusely. Hopefully a spring could be found; if he couldn't find enough soon he'd have to use magic.

Oh, he could do that freely now! For the first time in years he was free to use his powers. He couldn't still feel the amazing pulsing sensation as he reached for it. Even after two days of using his power to create warmth shields and Heal his leg muscles almost numbed by the hours he spent weaving through the wasteland, there was still so much.

But it wasn't exactly his power, he reminded himself in disgust. It was the life of twenty slaves. And Dakova's.

He stared reverently at his hands. Specks of died blood were still under some of his fingernails; water was too precious. Who's blood was it?

After finally, after all these years, killing Dakova Akkarin had run blindly away. As the Ichani's breathing stopped something in Akkarin seemed to have disappeared. He couldn't say what had happened, but he'd gotten away from that cave for miles before calming down and realizing he should have returned to camp to get some supplies first. By then it was too late. Kariko might have been there at that time.

There had been no triumph as he took Dakova's power, some of which had been his. He'd spent the past three years looking forward to and hoping for this day, but when it came, he didn't know what his life meant anymore.

Krylia and the Guild seemed so far away. At first he'd despaired of going back. In order to returned, he'd have to go back more of less the way he had come, and that meant that that terrain was barren, without much food to scavenge.

But Karikio would come for him soon, so Akkarin had decided to try, not expecting for live but wanting to die…free.

After four years' practice, he knew where to find food, but that didn't mean he could find enough of it. Most places only had trees that had once born nuts or berries, but hopefully later on the wasteland had recovered more.

He used quite a lot of magic, though he involuntarily hesitated before doing so, always remembering the belt-whip cracking against his back.

He had on no shoes and only wore his tattered tunic and trousers. It was his third set in four years. The warmth shields at night used a lot of power, though he only warmed up the air around him until he wouldn't freeze.

Suddenly he heard faint hoof beats coming from where he'd just come. He looked around wildly and dove between a boulder and the hill, crouching with his heart racing as the noise got louder. No, please…

Then a bold reckless thought came to him:

I'll go down fighting.

There was a possibility that he'd overcome his pursuer, though Kariko must've known what Akkarin had done, and thus strengthening himself. At the least he'd get a fatal strike to hit him. He didn't want to go through what punishment Kariko would deal before he was killed. He'd seen enough in the past few years to prefer a quick death.

Akkarin felt his body tense, that long forgotten thrill of magical combat came again, but this time filled also with a sense of apprehension. Surprise was on his side. He got ready to strike.

The Ichani appeared. Akkarin sent out a powerful force strike a second before he saw the face of the rider. Then he saw who it was and hastily directed the strike, halfway to Takan, hurtling towards the right, where it exploded the side of a hill.

Surprised and shaken, Akkarin tried to stand, but he was shaking so badly that he collapsed. He wondered as he passed out why Takan had come, and on a horse.


	11. Chapter 11 The Female Ichani

**A/N: First, a thank you to all of you who have taken the time to read this fic and, even better, reviewed! It makes me sort of sad since I****'****ll be ending this fic very soon- this is the second to last chapter. **

**T****his chapter is the only one that changes between two****…****periods. ****T****he two scenes portray completely ****different**** emotions. Please read!**

**P****robably because I never dared to read THL thoroughly (It hurts), I never understood Trudi****'****s ****principal**** of magic very well, especially the connection ****between**** one****'****s life force and ****'****magic potential****'****. If one dies after being drained of his/her power, then it means that his****/her power is sort of like the force of his/her life, isn'****t it? ****T****hen how to you explain why those other people with no magic potential live? ****O****r is it like you have ****'****magic potential****'**** because your body can transform your life force to ****magic**** power or something? ****O****K, I think I****'****m rambling. Please just review!**

Chapter 11 The Female Ichani

Akkarin sighed softly as the slave bent over, seemingly exhausted. When would all this end…

He made his way to the Sachakan, knife in hand and ready. Always the same, for years…

At that moment, just after Akkarin had shattered the slave's weak magic shield, the spy pulled away his hood.

No, not _his_ hood… the spy was a woman.

She was Ilaia.

Akkarin found himself unable to move. No, it couldn't be… but had he…

The woman's features suddenly contorted until they were harsh with cruelty and malice. The sudden transformation was accompanied by a line of pain in Akkarin's right forearm, which shocked him into action.

The spy's other hand was already darting for the cut, but Akkarin pulled away just in time and drew up a new shield, Healing his wound and forming strikes simultaneously.

The battle was then more intense and passed in a blur. Akkarin put all of his consciousness into it, wanting to distract himself form what had just occurred. So careless of him… And still her, after all these years…

Who would win this duel?

He was aware of so many things at once that he only knew by a feeling why the woman levitated out of the window. Of course she expected him to give chase. She was testing him, playing with him…

Oh how he wanted to get back for her reopening that wound just beginning to heal. He had almost forgotten about Ilaia, her meaningful smile, so like…

No, no… but such pale skin, same black hair, and oh that same smile…

Did this spy know? What did this mean?

"_They have seen your woman__"…_

He was now by the window, gazing over the slums. The woman was still in sight. But of course he couldn't fight in the open.

Only in the shadows could he achieve true greatness…

He was spread too thin.

He felt a scream building up inside him, and it took all his willpower not to let it out. He couldn't do this, it was impossible…

His past was coming back to haunt him. A slave who kills his master must be punished, all those spies had said…

Oh how could he not look back now…

/

Akkarin woke with a start. Just then he'd dreamed of something coherent for the first time in years. Oh Ilaia…

He was lying on his side… and on well-worn yet soft furs. What had happened? The last thing he remembered was almost striking Takan…

"Master?" What-?

Akkarin closed his half-opened eyes, even more confused than before. So that was why Takan was on a horse? He sent his senses outward, trying to find where the Ichani was, but could only sense someone kneeling behind him.

He waited, his heartbeat quickening and wondering what he should do. It was all so wrong and conflicting…

When he couldn't bear the utter silence and uncertainty any longer, Akkarin created an invisible shield closely around himself. While he'd waited he'd checked his body and found nothing new hurt, so in a practiced motion he pushed himself up abruptly and found takan kneeling by him.

The Sachakan looked just as clam as always. "Hungry, master?" he bowed his head and offered a bowl of pure-rice porridge to Akkarin, using both hands.

The sight of food made Akkarin's mouth water, and he became again acutely aware of his need for sustenance. He made no move to accept the bowl, and wondered which of the two of them had gone insane. "Takan…"

"Yes, master?" the Sachakan said promptly, and then lifted his head up till was facing Akkarin directly.

"You know the ways of Sachaka now. You killed Dakova, thus making all of his property yours. The property mostly consists of his slaves. Now meaning only me, whom you have so…kindly spared.

Akkarin stared at Takan, realization finally dawning on him. "Takan, you don't have to…" Oh what had he been thinking of, sparing his friend life? It was-

Takan finished the thought for him. "Master! You've seen how Dakova treated the slaves who used to be Marika's. Kariko and Dakova are only brothers in blood. In truth… do you think I will be treated kindly by Kariko?" the submissive tone he'd just used was gone. Now his words were fierce with both desperation and sorrow.

And _now _Akkarin remembered how Dakova had tortured the remaining slaves of another Ichani he'd defeated. Takan was smart…

"Takan," he said softly, "You don't have to be so…" he faltered, not able to find a word which didn't hurt to say. "I'm going back to Krylia, where slavery is not practiced. If you're…coming with me, you shouldn't―"

"Akkarin!" For the first time Takan's eyes were glistening with tears. "I cannot change some things, just as you can't. Treating you this way will not…torture my conscience so much. I have bent the laws of Sachaka as much as I can in order to go with you without overwhelming guilt. I was born a slave ―you know how― and ever since then I have lived by those rules. I need time, and even after years…"

Akkarin felt something burning catching in his throat. The understanding of the extent to which Takan had gone to help him hit him hard. Unable to speak, he leaned forward and hugged the Sachakan.

"Takan, thank you. I'm sorry…" he murmured. Over Takan's shoulder he could see the sprawling wasteland, and in the distance he thought he saw a range of tall mountains. He realized that he was now finally able to repay Takan for all the help he'd given him in the past four years. The journey would be long and hard, but he would have more help, determination and incentive then ever before.


End file.
